I laid them neatly across the kitchen table.
When Richard entered and saw the pages, he stopped in his tracks.
“Belinda, listen. It wasn’t like that.”
“Sit down, Richard.”
He sat.
“I’m not asking you to explain.”
“Baby, please. I can apologize. I’ll do anything.”
“I’m not asking you to fix this tonight either.”
His expression changed.
I looked straight at him.
“I’m telling you that I’m finished making myself smaller so you can feel bigger.”
Richard’s eyes filled.
He apologized.
He promised counseling.
Therapy.
Marriage counseling.
Anything I wanted.
“I need you to leave the house for two weeks,” I said. “I need to think without hearing your voice in every room.”
To my surprise, he packed a bag that night.
And left.
Two weeks became something much bigger.
For the first time, I began pelvic floor therapy—the same therapy Richard had repeatedly dismissed as a waste of money.
